The room was too small.
Too quiet. Too contained.
The seven warriors stood before me, waiting, their forms flickering like shadows barely held together. They were strong, but strength wasn't enough.
Not yet.
I exhaled, reaching into the darkness.
The next moment, we were gone.
The forest was empty. Silent. A place untouched, isolated from prying eyes. The kind of place where power could rise without interference.
The kind of place where a king could shape his army.
The warriors stood before me, unmoving. They had no names. No true form. Not yet.
That was about to change.
I reached into the Underworld.
And pulled.
The realm of the dead answered.
One million souls surged through the veil, a tide of power rushing forward, howling, screaming, desperate to be given purpose.
I clenched my fist, and the flood obeyed, condensing into something smaller, denser—pure.
Then, I reached into my own palm, drawing a thin line across my skin.
Blood welled up, dark and rich, dripping into the swirling mass of souls.
My blood. The blood of the Underworld.
I looked at them—not just as soldiers, not just as summoned beings. But as something more.
Something greater.
"You are strong," I said, my voice steady. "But strength alone is not enough."
They didn't move. Didn't react.
"You will not just be warriors. You will not just fight in my name."
I stepped forward, my gaze sweeping over them.
"You will be mine. My champions. My sword. My wrath."
The shadows curled at my feet, slithering toward them like living things.
"This world has forgotten my father," I murmured. "It will not forget me."
I moved to the first.
Wrath. The Berserker.
His stance was rigid, his body a coiled spring of tension, barely contained destruction. His presence burned with rage, with battle, with the need to tear through anything in his way.
"You will be my storm," I said. "The fury that does not fade, the fire that never dies. You are The Berserker."
The moment the name left my lips, the shadows obeyed. Power surged through him, his body shifting, his form crackling with barely contained rage.
I turned to the next.
Greed. The Collector.
His hands twitched at his sides, his gaze sharp, filled with hunger. He was not just a warrior—he was a force of acquisition, of endless want, of taking until there was nothing left.
"You will not take for yourself," I said. "You will take for me. You are The Collector."
Dark tendrils coiled around him, wrapping around his arms like chains of power. His body shuddered, absorbing, devouring, shifting into something more.
Sloth. The Slumber.
He barely even looked at me, standing still, massive, unmoving. But I knew better.
Stillness was not weakness.
Stillness was waiting.
"You do not sleep because you are lazy," I said. "You sleep because the world is not yet ready for you to wake. You are the force that lingers. The disaster that has not yet arrived. You are The Slumber."
The air around him grew heavy, thick, pressing down as if time itself had slowed in his presence.
Lust. The Enchanter.
A smirk. A knowing gaze. He was not meant for brute force—his power lay in whispers, in subtlety, in making others fall before they even knew they had lost.
"You are the blade in the dark," I said. "The voice that leads men to ruin, the illusion that none can escape. You are The Enchanter."
His form shimmered, his presence thickening, intoxicating, bending the air itself around him.
Envy. The Shadow.
He did not flinch. Did not move.
"You are not just one," I said. "You are all. The reflection, the mimic, the unknown. You are The Shadow."
Darkness surged, swallowing him for a moment before spitting him back out. He did not change—he simply became more.
Gluttony. The Devourer.
His breath came heavy, his presence an endless, gaping void. The need to consume, to take, to erase.
"You are hunger itself," I said. "A force that cannot be stopped. A fate that cannot be escaped. You are The Devourer."
Power rippled through him, the ground beneath his feet shifting as if being pulled toward him.
Pride. The Supreme Champion.
And then, the last.
He stood tall. Unshaken. A warrior who did not doubt, who did not waver, who did not acknowledge the possibility of defeat.
"You will bow to no one," I said. "You will stand above all, the pinnacle of strength, the ruler of the battlefield. You are The Supreme Champion."
Light flared around him, golden and untouchable, power manifesting as pure, unshakable presence.
I stepped back.
They knelt.
All seven.
Bound to me.
And I knew.
I had done what my father never did.
I had given them purpose.
I had made them my own.
I lifted my hand, and I could feel it—their power, their existence, the weight of their loyalty settling into my bones.
"I will not be forgotten," I said, voice steady. "I will not be cast aside. You are my champions. My blade. My wrath."
The forest trembled.
The shadows deepened.
And just like that—
The Underworld had its king.